Meadowlark Prairie to bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own

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On an early spring day that had the skies warmer than they'd been in months, Grievous contemplated his mortality. Truly, it was more like anticipatory dread; for the weeks to come that would slowly and painfully draw the season ever closer to the intolerable summer months. He thought he might rather die before facing another few months of being completely drained by the glaring sun... But in remembering the sweet freeze of winter, and the exhilarating need to keep one's blood pumping, he thought he might like to see at least one more cold front before he gave his bones to the soil.

The only upside to the end of winter was the flood of new prey. He had already put on several pounds, and would gain about twenty more before the end of spring, but more than he was glad to have a full belly, he wanted desperately to cling to his winter friskiness.

It was with this in mind that he tread the cool flatlands for a lone playmate. Much to his chagrin, he had skirted one pack only to find that he was approaching another. Adjusting his direction northbound, he sought to avoid trouble— as running into an entire pack hardly ever bode well for a wolf of his competitive calibur— but kept his xanthous eyes open for the kind of company he desired.

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He does not join the pack, per se. It is only thanks to Miraak's presence that he survives the Dark Brotherhood's protective wrath, and he is grateful for the patronage. He is still adjusting to the new land now, the Wilds, just as the land was undergoing an adjustment of himself. Mal' is tentative to leave the Woods. He is no warrior such as Miraak, despite his brief training. His body is far from frail, but he is slender, coddled for most of his life. The mission was a test for him, a reason for him to grown and expand rather than stagnant at home.

To say that he was annoyed in the beginning, he slowly grows used to life out there on the road. But it is still a great undertaking for the catamite. Used to being combed through and perfumed, to being fed and escorted, he faces the prairie with equal trepidation and excitement, his breath catching as he looked back at the Woods, the familiar scent of Miraak wafting towards him, before he turned back towards the powerful scent of the blooming prairie. 

Audentes Fortuna iuvat, He murmurs to himself with a roll of his eyes, before stepping forward into the greenery, his slowly callousing paws greeting the springy new grass, as he ventured into the prairie, sniffing the ground for any sweet-smelling flowers to roll in. He bore the earthy smell of the road for too long, and if he was to fulfill his purpose here, he would not succeed. With his standards, at least.

Malcanthet finds little in the way of blossoming flowers to is annoyance, but he finds something else: a male. Mal' looks up from his flower hunt at the creature of soot and ash that floated across the prairie in a menacing cloud, headed by golden headlights. The courtesan chuffed at the man, his tail swinging though he was quite disappointed with his current appearance. He would have to make do, he supposed, if he wanted anything done.

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The prairie— and its everlasting monotony of hard brush and grassroots— threatened to swallow Grievous whole before he'd have a chance to escape it. His focus honed in on a distant mountain peak, a target to keep his hope alive; a way to judge if he had progressed through this treacherously open space or not.

And just when he's starting to feel the ire of hopelessness dawn against his conscious train of thought, a sound procures his attention.

Harkening, Hell's ferryman turns all of his senses in one direction; his ears up and body tightening smoothly like a wave readying to crest. Having called to him, there stood a silken black canid, courtly, and inviting, and in such stark juxtaposition to his surroundings that Grievous feels a stab of shame he didn't notice the svelte raven first.

His body relaxed and oozed forward like an ink-spill, coming closer so that his low, melting voice might be heard. Hail, he drawled quietly; though a hidden energy behind the single word implied a stow of reserved menace— a devil not presently looking to claim the soul presented.

His gaze lavished him freely, winding up long legs to a sleek face harboring a pair of pale wings beneath beryl moons. The dying suns that were Grievous' own eyes glittered with faint interest, and his thick tail arched slowly into a dominant wag. I've nary met a wolf who calls for my attention... not when thy other option wert to avoid me entirely.

Grievous licked his chops. Thy must have reason then, to beckon sure fire onto thine glossy night-feathers, dear raven— art I mistaken?

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Your eloquent posts outshine mine; I cannot compare. (/ﾟДﾟ)/

The male heeds his summons, turning towards Malcanthet and making his way to the dark catamite. Mal' smiles softly and waits all the while, a part of him cowering in fear, chiding him for his rash actions. This wolf was a killer; it was merely not a fault of looks that instilled that pit of anxiousness in him. He knew that look in a wolf's eye, having been born and raised around killers, sired and created. 

He finds himself shuddering at the wolf's first word, but stills himself, calming his quickly palpating heart. There is something about him, surrounding him, that reminds him of the Melonii line, despite his golden, owlish eyes. I would find it hard to pull myself away from someone such as you, He drawled, his head tilting coquettishly. I do, He cooed, a smile gracing his features.